


The Survivor

by Bolt_DMC



Category: Bolt (2008)
Genre: Abandonment, Backstory, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Friendship, Humor, LGBTQ Character, Movie Reference, Music, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Peril, Substance Abuse, Suggestive Themes, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:39:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolt_DMC/pseuds/Bolt_DMC
Summary: Mittens’s backstory. When we first see her in the film, she's living as a street stray, extorting food from pigeons as part of a protection racket. How did she end up on the street, declawed no less? What was her home life like before that? How did she know so much about dogs? This story suggests a scenario. Primary cultural references include music by Hüsker Dü and The Replacements, plus things as varied as Judy Garland/"The Wizard of Oz," the TV shows "Seinfeld" and "Will and Grace," the punk band X, and films directed by Alfred Hitchcock and Charles Laughton.





	The Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: 2004-2008.
> 
> For Dave M.

Part I: Pleased to Meet Me

1.

The small glass enclosure at the Upper East Side's ASPCA Animal Adoption Center had two occupants. Both were domestic short-haired tuxedo cats, one large and the other a miniature carbon copy of her.

"Time for more schooling, little one," said the mother cat. "I have some new things to teach you."

The tiny kitten had been the runt of the litter and the only black-and-white one of the bunch. She could also be a bit of a handful at times. "Aw, do I have to?" she mewled. "None of my brothers and sisters had to go through so much torture. Can't hardly wait for all this schooling to be over with."

Her mother shook her head sadly. "Sweetheart, they were all adopted out quickly. Consider it a blessing, because as the smallest one, you'll need all the advantages you can get. I owe you this, and someday you may have youngsters of your own to pass traditions on to. It's not an easy world out there if you’re a cat."

"Yeah, I know, I know," said the kitten a bit impatiently. "And being a black cat just makes it tougher ‘cause people think you're unlucky. You already told me that."

"Look, Miss Smarty-pants, you want to get adopted, don't you?" the mother cat scolded. "Well, you need to get humans to notice and like you. Sit up straight. Get a cute look on your face instead of a scowl. Do that adorable little ‘mew’ your brothers and sisters learned so quickly. A charming little paw lick and face wash always goes over well, too. Makes you clean and presentable. Nobody likes a pigpen, honey."

"Gee, I don't know what you're so worried about," said the small tuxedo kitty. "Somebody will want me sooner or later, right?"

The older cat lay on her stomach, her head resting on her white paws. "Try for sooner, little one. It's been four months now, and they won't keep you here forever. Cute -- think cute. It's a life saver, I promise you."

"You'll be coming with me, right mama?" asked the youngster.

Her mother's expression turned wistful. "Perhaps. But I can't promise that’ll happen. Older cats like me can be a tough sell to humans. I told you that too, remember? Don't be a sieve-head, baby. Good advice is valuable. I know you’re a smart little kitty, so don't go forgetting stuff, okay?"

The kitten sighed. "Okay." She tried her best to look cute, though she still hadn't quite gotten the hang of it. "How's this?"

The mother cat scrutinized her carefully. "Not bad. Try more of a smile, though. Ears perky. And look up at the ceiling -- eyes up top like I told you." She nodded. "Ah, there you go. Nobody’ll be able to resist you if you do it like that. Much, much better."

The little tuxedo cat went back into a slouch as a more irritated look crossed her face. "So what's today's lesson, huh?" she asked.

"Dogs," her mama said.

"Ugh -- not those stinky, slobbery things!" groaned the kitten. "Gross!"

"Now, now!" came the reply. "Never, ever underestimate a dog. But you need to learn how to read them. Some aren't fond of cats at all. Some may even try to hurt or kill you. Others, though -- well, some dogs are sweet and kind and like cats very much. And it never hurts to have one as your friend –- they’ll protect you from anything if they like you enough. Look at their stance, their facial expressions, and their body language. Aloof or grouchy -- stay cautious. Aggressive or angry -- steer clear. But they can be very friendly, too. You'll find a lot of them are just goofy and charming. And like humans, they appreciate it when you’re engaging and helpful and cooperative. Plus, a little flattery can go a long way with them."

"Fat chance I'll ever have one of those dopey wagtails as my friend," thought the little kitten. "Makes my skin crawl just to think of it."

2.

A couple weeks went by, and no one had adopted either the mother cat or her youngster yet. That finally changed when the kitten reached five months of age. A chubby pre-teen girl with blond hair and a scattered, if somewhat impetuous way about her came into the animal shelter. Her equally hefty mother, a rather impatient sort with mousy brown hair, blobby features, and a bruise on her left jaw, accompanied her.

"Claire," the older woman said irritability, "Another pet? Really? You haven't been awfully responsible about the ones we've rescued in the past. Every time, you lose interest and we just wind up getting rid of it. Your dad has flushed more critters down the toilet than I can count anymore."

But Claire was undeterred. "Maybe I should have something that's bigger and needs more attention. Then I won't get bored with it. I wanna cat. Or a dog. Or a lizard or… or something… or… I don’t know… "

The mother cat, who hadn't heard this exchange, edged her youngster to the front of the glass enclosure. "The clock's ticking, little one. It's time you pushed a bit harder. Look sweet, clean your face, and mew nicely. Maybe she'll notice you."

The older woman, whose name was Emily, approached the glass case with the two tuxedo cats. "How about this little kitten, then? I guess we can always return it if things don't work out."

"Sure, let's give it a try," sighed Claire halfheartedly. "But yeah, you're right -- what's dad gonna say? He hasn't liked any of the other pets I brought home before. Lousy, rotten creep… "

Emily glared at the girl. "What did you say?"

"Oh -- never mind," she groused huffily.

"Well," said Emily. "Maybe this’ll be the exception. Hope so, anyway. And don't say mean things like that about your father." She thought further and muttered, "That's my department," under her breath.

The tuxedo kitten was removed from the glass case. "Bye, mama! Hope you get adopted soon, too," she said optimistically.

The older cat nodded sadly. She wasn't especially convinced that anything would happen along those lines, but she didn't want to upset her little one needlessly. "I'm sure somebody'll come along soon for me. Be good. I love you, baby."

"Love you too, mama!" said the small tuxedo cat.

"So, have you decided what you want to name the kitty?" Emily asked.

Claire screwed up her face into a scrunchy ball of thought. "Okay -- how’s about Mr. Mittens?"

Part II: Candy Apple Grey

1.

Mittens’s new home was an apartment in a downscale Brooklyn housing project which consisted of a series of low rise buildings. Yards ran through them, dotted with barbecue pits, clotheslines, and -- for some reason -- old tires. Besides Claire and Emily, her new family included Jack, Claire’s father. Their complex was one of the roughest in a neighborhood where rats tread cautiously, and Jack's family was the one that all the other parents warned their kids to stay clear of.

Jack was an unpleasant fellow in his late 20s, short and wiry with blond hair and an abundance of tattoos. His birth mother was a single girl who got pregnant and drank far too much while carrying the child. He was taken away by Child Foster Service at birth and placed into an orphanage soon after. Identified at a young age as suffering from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, the issue manifested itself in the youngster primarily through a lack of impulse control and a volatile temper. He bounced from foster home to foster home, each with varying levels of neglect and outright abusiveness since it was hard to find anyone who would take a kid with FAS.

Jack eventually ran away at the age of 16 and joined a Brooklyn-based gang. He got the group’s tattoos and colors, clinging to a deluded notion that he was an important member to them -- but the truth is that they never saw him as anything other than expendable fodder. Jack took up smoking to fit in, and was up to a pack-a-day habit in very short order. He generally tried to stay sober at first, but much of the income he made from his cut of dealing ended up going towards binge drinking and drug use.

He met Emily during one of his sober stints and accidentally got her pregnant in short order. When Emily decided to keep the baby, Jack actually tried to do the right thing by taking on work as a construction laborer, but his temper and unpredictability, coupled with spotty attendance, resulted in his seldom getting invited back after a job was completed. When he wasn't working, he’d fall back on dealing crack and crystal meth for the gang to tide things over until his next job. This invariably led to frustration, self-loathing, and substance abuse. When Jack got drunk, his FAS really shone through, and he would often become irrational, angry, and violent -- sometimes taking it out on whatever was closest by. That could be the television, a stack of dishes, the front door, one of the neighbor's cars, or even Emily or Claire if they happened to be within reach. He was also mean to animals, frequently disposing of his daughter’s latest pet fascination after several weeks, often by unceremoniously dumping the animal in an alley or flushing it (usually still alive) down the toilet.

Jack's wife Emily, also in her 20s, had grown up in oppressive poverty within the cramped confines of a Bronx tenement high-rise. Daughter of an abusive father and a mother who had died in childbirth, the girl had from an early age longed to relocate into better circumstances. Several issues would ultimately prevent this, though -- her unpredictable temper, chronic weight problem, and impatience with school combined unluckily with an undiagnosed case of Borderline Personality Disorder which she self-medicated first with junk food and cigarettes and later with cheap beer and weed.

Emily's father subconsciously blamed the girl for his wife's death and frequently berated and sometimes beat her. Not surprisingly, the youngster ran away from home several times and exhibited all the self-esteem of a cowering mongrel. The girl dropped out of school at age 15 and soon fell in with a sketchy crew whose main purpose in life seemingly was to hang around lower-echelon gang members. She quickly developed a taste for bad boys with far more swagger and style than sense, mistakenly hoping that one of them would be her ticket out of an impoverished life.

Jack was simply the wrong man at the wrong time. He was a flashy fellow who was only supposed to be a rebound fling, but faulty birth control would decide the matter otherwise. She figured Jack could provide for her acceptably enough, and soon married him after opting to keep the child.

Emily did enjoy some things about her husband at first. She liked that he had tried to be a good provider, at least when he was able to stay sober. She found his anti-authoritarian streak exciting, until its repeated manifestation made him tiresome. She loved it when Jack spent fistfuls of money on her, but when she realized he usually did so in lieu of paying for basic necessities, the allure waned. Worst of all, she discovered that Jack's Fetal Alcohol Syndrome often expressed itself in the same kind of abuse her father had inflicted on her. Over time, she became sullen, mistrustful, and shrewish -- determined to protect herself and her daughter from Jack's unpredictable excesses -- and took to lambasting him in a generally futile attempt to forestall his bad behavior. Physical violence between the two of them gradually increased over time, and the couple became well-known to the police and child services.

With parents like this, Claire had no more chance at a happy life than a goldfish living in a glacier. Jack's FAS-fueled anger and abusive behavior took a heavy toll on the girl’s well-being, setting a poor example for how people should behave in the outside world. His occasional rants accusing his daughter of having trapped him in an increasingly unhappy marriage -- that he wished she had never been born at all -- saddled Claire with crushing feelings of guilt and self-hatred. Perhaps not surprisingly, her behavior swung between extremes of vigorous lashing out and gloomy moping much of the time.

Emily was at times a source of solace for Claire, but her mother could also be a harsh disciplinarian, which kept the two of them from truly connecting with each other on an emotional level. Like Emily, she suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder and had already graduated from potato chips, soda, and snack cakes to cigarettes in an attempt to soothe her pain and anxiety. She also exhibited signs of Attention Deficit Disorder, frequently coming across as scattered, ditzy, and thoroughly unable to concentrate on anything for long. Claire liked animals, but lacked the discipline and patience to care for a pet.

School was a daily source of dread, in her mind functioning as a second prison that served up a cornucopia of boredom and frustration. She was innately intelligent but unable to focus or apply herself, which earned the girl no end of scolding from her teachers. Claire quickly fell in with a mean, aggressive clique that mercilessly bullied the school’s "brainiacs" and "wusses," as they sneeringly referred to them, and her recurrent bad behavior regularly landed her in the principal's office or after-school detention.

The girl’s taste in music tended towards the loud and rambunctious, but not every group Claire liked was of poor quality. A favorite of hers was The Replacements, one of the two great post-hardcore indie-rock groups out of Minneapolis in the 1980s. Having started as a pure punk act, they soon branched out into a wide array of styles, though still maintaining a thumping, raucous sensibility. Fronted by primary songwriter Paul Westerberg, their finest releases, "Let It Be," "Tim," and "Pleased to Meet Me," are especially worthwhile. The last of these should have been their big commercial breakthrough, but problems ensued; "The Ledge," their planned single, saw its music video banned over its suicide-based subject matter, plus the group's unreliability in live performance (which sometimes saw inspired playing but other times found the group too inebriated to function) didn't help matters. Their last two albums were letdowns and the group collapsed shortly afterwards, but their best work remains vitally wonderful. This was the cat’s first exposure to music, which over time would become a lifelong passion.

"Not much, I guess, but it's home," thought Mittens (she resolutely refused to accept the "Mr." part of Claire’s designation) to herself. "I've got a feeling I'll be outside or holed up in a closet a lot around here. Bet I can’t possibly squirrel myself too far down into good hiding places." Claire not surprisingly lost interest in Mittens soon enough, only playing with her once in a while, so she was left alone most of the time. The cat learned to give the unfriendly Jack an especially wide berth, as he was clearly not pleased with his daughter’s latest passing animal fancy.

Fortunately, Mittens managed to find lots of ways to amuse herself in solitude. She discovered several out-of-the-way nooks, perfect for napping or when domestic squabbles became too intense. She encountered plenty of bugs to chase, such as roaches, spiders, and centipedes. Late in the evening, after everyone had gone to bed, she would curl up in front of the dying embers in the fireplace -- one of the few concessions to the good life in this otherwise depressing home and neighborhood -- and happily wrestle with a ball of yarn to relax.

2.

The American pit bull terrier was large and athletic for his breed. Brown and white with a ring around the left eye, he was a carbon copy of the pooch from the old "Our Gang" movie shorts, and appropriately had acquired the name Petey.

Mittens was outside in the shared yard space for the housing project when she stumbled into the dog -- quite literally, as it turned out. She was chasing a butterfly and bumped smack into him when she turned the corner. The cat froze, not quite sure what to make of him. Of course she knew a couple things about canines, but she hadn't ever been in close proximity to one before, and certainly not this close.

"I don’t know if he’s friendly or not, but let’s find out," she thought nervously. "Ummmmm, hi there," she said tentatively, hoping for the best. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

Petey burst into raucous laughter. "Now there's a question I've never been asked before," he said jovially. "But if I had a middle name, it’d probably be Glinda, so a good witch it would be, I suppose."

The cat grinned with relief. "I've never met a dog before. My mama said some are nice and some aren't. Sure am glad to know you're one of the good ones."

"Heck," he said, "Anybody going around quoting ‘The Wizard of Oz’ must be a Judy Garland fan. How can you be mad at somebody who likes her? Or Debbie Reynolds or Bette Midler, for that matter."

"Oh yeah -- big, big, big Judy Garland fan. ‘Meet Me in St. Louis’, ‘Easter Parade’, ‘A Star Is Born’… great stuff." She wasn't in truth all that much of a devotee, but decided to play along. The dog seemed friendly, after all. "Anyway, if I'm gonna go around crashing into you, the least I can do is introduce myself. I’m Mittens."

"Petey’s the name," said the terrier. "My person is Darnell, and we live across the yard that way."

"Glad to meet you," the cat replied. "Though to tell the truth, my humans named me Mr. Mittens. Geez, couldn't they have been bothered to turn me over and, y’know, taken a look before naming me? They didn’t exactly need a crystal ball to figure that out. I am after all missing those three vital pieces of equipment any Mister needs in his repertoire."

The dog smiled distractedly. "Oh, sorry," he explained. "Just musing on my favorite pieces of equipment is all."

"I don't follow you," said the perplexed cat.

"Well," chuckled Petey knowingly, "Let's just say that I'm a man’s man and leave it at that."

"Ohhh," Mittens grinned. "Not that there's anything wrong with that… "

The pooch laughed heartily. "My favorite ‘Seinfeld’ episode, don't you know. I like you, kid -- you’re a stitch!" Petey paused to wipe his eyes and said, "So who's the perceptive yutz that thinks you're a boy, anyway?"

"It's the family of three that lives over there. I guess their names are Jack and Emily, and Claire's their daughter," she said.

The dog frowned. "Oh, them," he grumbled. "I'm not surprised they don't have any clue about you. I don’t know for sure what their problem is, but they've been a thorn in everyone's side around here -- dead set on destruction, it seems. My human even had to get a restraining order against them. Jack went after Darnell in his apartment with a tire iron once. Thought he was the one who had snapped the antenna off his junk heap of a car. As if!" Petey winced. "Had to defend Darnell against him. Bit him a good gash in his leg, too. Jack tried to get me put down, but the judge wouldn't hear of it. My condolences."

The cat nodded. "Yeah, they don't seem like very nice people. I've been kind of staying out of their way, for the most part."

"Well, listen, my friend," said the pooch with emphasis. "You can always come find me if they give you any trouble. No way I'm gonna let my Judy Garland buddy get the stuffings kicked out of her. And that's a promise. Count on it."

Part III: Hootenanny

1.

It didn't take long for Mittens to find out if Petey was as good as his word. This was not the first time Claire had forgotten to feed the cat, unfortunately, but it was the first time she had done so while defrosting food was left sitting on the counter. And that big package of chicken sure smelled good to the hungry kitty. Willpower was not an option here. She jumped on the counter, tore open the encasing plastic wrap, and begin gnawing off thawed edge hunks of the treat.

She had nearly eaten her fill when she heard a noisy crash behind her. "What the frig are you doin’?" bellowed Jack as he rushed into the room. "Get your mangy carcass the heck away from that meat! I’ll whup the tar outta you, you crappy little skunk!"

The cat hastily leaped to the floor, narrowly dodging the thrown shoe that instead smashed a set of glasses near the sink, and scrambled out the screen door. Jack grabbed a broom and furiously gave chase.

Petey was sniffing at a particularly well-marked tree out in the yard when Mittens ran up to him. "Help! Help!" she panted. "Jack’s after me, and boy is he mad! I was so hungry I ate some food on the counter. Hadn't fed me in two days."

"Don't worry, little friend," said the terrier with resolve. "I'll protect you."

Petey turned to face the angry man, striking a defiant stance while barking and growling. "You lose, pal!" he woofed to Jack. The trembling cat hid behind him, hunched into a quivering ball.

"Outta my way!" shouted Jack angrily. "I’ll beat your lousy brains out, you nasty creep!"

By now, several of the project's residents had come to their porches, wondering what ridiculous circumstance had set off Jack this time. One of the tenants came running into the yard, waving his arms. It was Petey’s human, Darnell. He was a tall man, thin but muscular, with black hair frosted in red highlights and a trim mustache. He eked out a living working in coffee shops and fast food joints. The homophobic, racist Jack had two reasons not to like Darnell, and they had squabbled many times in the past.

"How many times I gotta tell you, man -- stay away from my dog!" he yelled. "Want me to cash in my restraining order on you? Got the cops on speed dial, and they'll be here any minute if you don't back off. Run it outta here, now!"

Jack took a half-hearted swing in the general direction of the terrier, shouted a rant laced with sleazy epithets at Darnell, and retreated huffily to his unit.

Darnell ran over to the pooch, clapping his hands to calm him down. "C’mon now -- it's okay, buddy, you can relax. He's gone, and I got your back. If somebody shot him, they'd be doing the world a favor." He stroked the cat’s back warmly. "You're safe, at least for the time being. Watch yourself around that loser, though. He’ll kill you if you're not careful."

Mittens was still shaking from the experience. "Wow, thanks! Color me impressed -- you’re a real pal, Petey. Boy, do I owe you one!"

"Ah, forget it," said the pooch. "My pleasure. He tries something like that again, and the only thing he'll be fit for is auditioning for Long John Silver movie roles. Like I said, you can count on me anytime you need. Promise."

Dog and cat sat in silence for a minute or two, gradually calming down. "Tell you what," suggested the terrier finally. "It's probably a good idea for you to stay out for a while, let him cool off some. I was gonna go see my pals anyway -- how's about you come along, too? They’re a fun bunch of guys. Bet you’ll like them."

2.

The two friends wandered several blocks over to a vacant lot, where a group of four dogs were congregated. They were all males, one each of a Rottweiler, Doberman pinscher, English bulldog, and Welsh corgi.

"Well, hello there, girls!" said Petey cheerfully. "What's the good word today?"

"Hey, lookie there," chuckled the Doberman, whose name was Wayne. "It seems that Will here has gotten himself a Grace!"

Mittens grinned. She had seen that television show several times. "Tell you one thing -- Petey and I have something in common with TV’s oddest couple. Neither of us thinks too highly of Jack."

At this, the dogs all broke into laughter. "Aw, she’s a hoot, ain’t she?" drawled Cedric the bulldog. "Petey, how'd you manage to buffalo this clever charmer into thinking you’re worth spending time with? Must've been quite a snow job you put up."

"Hey, what can I say?" quipped the cat. "Guess I’m the easily amused type. Seriously though, he just saved my life. Couldn't ask for a better friend, and that's no joke."

The Rottweiler, named Bruce, shook his head. "Jack, you said? Not that awful jerk who's been giving Petey’s human such a rotten time? If so, my sympathies. He’s bad news."

"Yeah, but I fixed him. He came out chasing my pal here with a broom. Seems she dared sneak a couple bites of chicken from the kitchen counter after not being fed the last couple days," Petey responded proudly. "Scared him, but good."

"Brave man, isn’t he?" said a frowning Alastair, the Welsh corgi. "Hasn’t he got anything better to do than pick on defenseless kitty cats like that? No class, I tell ya, no class. Gives us guys a bad name."

"So how’d you two meet, anyway?" asked Bruce. "Doesn’t look like the type of gal who hangs around banana plantations to me."

"Cute story behind that," replied Petey, who then related the "Wizard of Oz" tinged tale to them.

"Girl really had her radar turned up to high that day!" Wayne chortled.

Alastair smirked. "Heck, it must be going off the charts right now," he snickered wheezily.

"Ain’t you the lucky one, Petey," intoned Cedric lazily. "If I’da seen her first, she wouldn’t be giving you the time of day."

"…you being so loveable and all," teased Bruce.

"Now, now, now, gentlemen, no need to squabble," giggled Mittens. "After all, there’s plenty of me to go around."

Petey looked at the rail-thin cat with a grin. "All I can say is, if you’re ‘plenty’, I’d sure hate to see what ‘scrawny’ looks like."

The cat rolled her eyes and flashed the terrier a wry smile. "You got me there, pal. And if they keep forgetting to feed me, I’m gonna make Calista Flockhart look like the Goodyear blimp."

"Meeeeow, girl! Most kitties have sandpaper tongues, but can’t say I ever met one with a mouth full of fishhooks before," said Bruce with a grin. "You’re a true cat mutation, for sure. A regular… a regular… um, a regular ‘anemone’, gotta say."

"What?" laughed Wayne. "I see whiskers on her face, not tentacles! You mean ‘homily’, don’t you?"

Petey shook his head. "Always thinking about food, aren’t you? That’s ‘hominy’."

"Geez," groaned Alastair. "If you’re gonna use that word-a-day calendar your human has on his writing desk, you might wanna at least, you know, get it right? I’m pretty sure you meant ‘anomaly’."

"Hey now, play nice," the Rottweiler scolded. "Don’t forget, I’m bigger than you are. And you know what that means."

The corgi smiled wickedly. "Yeah -- yeah. Remind me later. I’m gonna need a refresher on that."

"You said a mouthful, son!" joked Cedric with a grin.

Part IV: Let It Be

1.

Jack had taken his wife and daughter to visit his recently-reacquainted birth mother, who lived alone in one of Newark’s least attractive parts of town, for the long holiday weekend. As one might guess, they had neglected to bring Mittens inside before leaving. Darnell found the cat huddled on his front porch when he went out to grab the morning newspaper.

"Hey, little kitty, what you doin’ here lookin’ all unsatisfied like that?" he said. "Your dopey family forget and leave you outside again? C’mon in, I’ve got the air conditioner on. Can't keep you here too long -- you know I'm allergic to cat hair -- but a little while won't hurt me none."

Mittens purred gratefully and went inside. Her first thought was to find Petey. She heard a noisy slurping sound coming from the bathroom and decided to investigate. An incredulous look crossed her face as she stopped short. "What’re you doing?" she said dubiously.

The dog lifted his head out of the toilet and grinned. "What’sa matter, you never seen a dog drink out of the potty before?"

"That's a new one on me," she replied. "Doesn't Darnell have a water bowl for you?"

"Well, yeah," Petey said. "But sometimes, this is just more convenient. Tastes pretty good too. You'd be amazed -- kinda like a bottle of Tiemann Spring with a little tang to it, know what I mean?"

Mittens stuck her tongue out in disgust. "Yeah, I can imagine."

"Eh -- it's a canine thing," the terrier laughed. "Like chewing shoes or chasing your tail. We dogs all have our little eccentricities. Kinda like when you knead stuff with your paws or lie down on a sheet of paper your human’s working on."

"If you say so. But don't worry, I’m cool with it. I'm your friend and friends understand." She went over to Petey and patted him on the shoulder. "I learn something new every day, looks like. Just er, don’t kiss me hello, okay?"

Darnell poked his head around the door opening. "Goin’ to the grocery to pick up a few things for a cookout. Wanna come with? You too, Mittens, if you want."

Petey scrambled up to the man, wagged his tail, and woofed excitedly. "We’re goin’ out! We’re goin’ out!" he barked happily.

It was early Saturday morning, and the New York City expressways were pretty much free of vehicles. Darnell pulled off the exit ramp, and when he did so, the terrier grinned with excitement.

"This is my favorite thing about riding in a car," he said as he stuck his head out of the window and lolled his tongue. "The smells! The rush of the wind! It feels like excitement and adventure!"

"Funny," yelled Mittens over the whooshing sound. "Dogs hate having people blow in their faces, but love this? You got me on that one."

"Yeah," he shouted. "Doesn't make sense to me either, but hey -- whoever said dogs were logical, huh?"

"Do cats ever do this kind of thing?" she asked.

Petey wrinkled his brow and thought for a minute. "Good question," he replied. "Can't say I've ever seen it. But there's only one way you can find out."

Mittens poked her head out the window opposite the one occupied by the dog. "Yes, I will dare, for once," she thought. The sensation felt odd to her -- the aggressive breeze buffeting her face, the faint odor of auto exhaust, the passing cars whizzing by just slightly too close for comfort, the precarious feel of being a small creature teetering at a window's edge. But it was the sudden sting of a gnat blowing into her eye that settled the matter for good.

"Nah," she said to the terrier as she climbed back in and wiped the bug from her eye. "I think this is definitely for dogs only."

"Okay -- more for me!" laughed the pooch.

Later, back at his apartment, Darnell was shaping hamburger into patties while Petey and Mittens watched. "So, what's so fascinating about this? You've got a perfectly good television to enjoy, right?" said the cat quizzically.

"You'll see," whispered the terrier with anticipation.

Darnell grinned when he saw the two critters looking at him intently. "Oops!" he said theatrically as he let several chunks of burger drop to the floor accidentally-on-purpose.

"Mine! Mine! Mine!" yapped Petey as he scrambled over and scarfed up bits of the fallen bounty.

The man chuckled. "Drops to the ground, it goes to the hound. Right, buddy?"

Mittens scampered over to snag a mouthful for herself. "Now this is one dog tradition I can really get behind," she said, happily munching away on meat scraps.

2.

Darnell headed out into the yard to grill burgers and tin-foiled potatoes and corn on the cob for his afternoon holiday meal. He gave Petey extra dog food with instructions to share it with Mittens. The two pets munched happily together from the wide bowl, finishing off every morsel. It was the dog’s favorite, too -- Nduli’s All-Natural tinned Savory Stew with lamb, barley, and veggies. "Meat! Meat! Meat!" was proudly emblazoned on the can in red letters, and the preponderance of this ingredient was what Petey liked most. Judging from the amount the cat gulped down, she approved as well.

"Wow," Mittens purred gratefully. "That was really yummy. You eat like this every day?"

The pooch stuck out his tongue trying to clean the last gravy bits from his whiskers. "Boy, don't I wish! He usually just gives me dry kibble, though that's tasty enough. But today's a holiday, and we’ve got you over as a guest, so I guess Darnell decided to break out the good stuff." He laughed. "Should have you over more often, don'tcha think? Maybe it'll become a habit."

"Yeah, no complaints from this peanut gallery," Mittens said happily.

After a rousing game of fetch-the-stick that kept the dog and his human merrily occupied for the next half hour or so, Petey and Mittens lay sprawled out on the grass. From an open window, they heard the anthemic song "4th of July" by X, one of the best tracks from that group’s last and arguably finest album "See How We Are" -- as close a stab at mainstream acceptance as the group would ever manage.

"Darnell really seems nice. He definitely treats you right," said Mittens.

"Gotta say, I'm pretty darned lucky," the dog replied. "When a human adopts you, it's a crapshoot. You can get a great owner like I have, but it doesn't always work out that way."

The cat shook her head. "Yup -- I can tell you that from first-hand experience. It’s lousy, feeling embarrassed for your humans. Amazing how it ends up being so random. Or so it seems, anyway."

"Could be," mused the terrier. "Of course, some folks think it's fate or karma. Hope it’s not karma in your case, otherwise you must have been a really, really, bad kitty in your previous life."

"That's me," she laughed. "The Hitler of the feline set way back when. And now that I’ve invoked Godwin's Law, I guess that officially terminates our conversation on the subject."

Just then, the haunting strains of "Hardly Getting over It" by Hüsker Dü began flowing through Darnell’s screen door. "Huh," the cat said. "Interesting stuff, and not at all what I would have expected. I thought Darnell would be more into dance tunes or pop or something like that."

Petey chuckled. "Oh, gosh no. He’s always had a big ol’ soft spot for any band with gay or bisexual members. Y’know, like Queen, The B-52s, R.E.M., or The Smiths? And given that they had two such guys, Hüsker Dü is right at the top of his playlist. Biiiig fan." The two lay quietly for some time, enjoying the music that wafted from the apartment.

Like The Replacements, the other great Twin Cities post-hardcore group’s songwriting pair of Bob Mould and Grant Hart eventually pushed their 1980s indie-rock style beyond straight punk, though they managed to find significant variety in this approach. From a group of albums as amazing as "Flip Your Wig," "Candy Apple Grey," "Warehouse: Songs and Stories," and "New Day Rising," the double album "Zen Arcade" stands out. It’s a concept album about a boy who runs away from an abusive broken home only to find that life is far worse out on the streets. Hüsker Dü’s attempt to secure mainstream success sadly crashed and burned in dissension between Mould and Hart, fueled by addiction issues and artistic differences. But their amazing catalog of albums remains behind to enjoy.

Eventually, the pooch broke the silence. "Hey, y’know, as good as that can of stew was, I'm actually getting hungry again."

"Well, you know me," said the cat with a nod. "Skinny as a snake with an everlasting appetite. I’m in. Got any idea how we’ll score some eats?"

Petey smiled impishly. "Well, this being the holiday, I'll bet there's lots of folks cooking out. Maybe it's time for me to break out my never-fail dog face."

"Got news for you, pal," Mittens laughed. "You've already got one -- or have you forgotten what species you are?"

"No, no!" the terrier chuckled. "I mean that irresistible begging expression us pooches are so famous for. Humans don't stand a chance when I turn on the charm!"

They strolled over to another yard area within the housing project. Petey sauntered up to a family of four (a mother and father with daughter and son) munching on chicken, hot dogs, potato salad, and coleslaw. He stood near the end of the picnic table and dropped his ears, rolled his eyes up to the heavens, set his mouth into a charming little pout, wagged his tail, and whined submissively.

"Awww -- what a cute little poochie-woochie! Aren't you sweet!" said the woman while the rest of the family ooohed and ahhhed.

"Here," the little girl beckoned. "Come here, boy! Nice doggie! You wanna have my hotdog?" She dropped the frankfurter to the ground and patted Petey’s head. The little boy next to her tossed the terrier a big chunk of chicken and giggled shyly.

The pooch excitedly scampered in a circle, wagged his tail, smiled, and woofed in thanks while gathering up his prize. He wandered over to Mittens and dropped the food at her feet. "See -- nothin’ to it. I'm an old hand at this."

"Impressive!" marveled the cat. "I can see where that skill would really come in handy. Think you could teach me how to do that?"

"Hmmm," Petey replied after a moment’s pause. "I could try, but there's probably gonna be something lost in the translation. It works great with dogs, but I'm not sure how well cats can put it over."

Mittens thought a minute and realized he was probably right. "Eh -- another one of those dogs-only things, I guess," she decided. They chowed down on chicken and wieners, then repeated the process at a couple more stops. Petey demonstrated an especially effective roll-over-and-look-cute move and a nicely executed hop-on-the-back-legs-and-wiggle-and-look-cute technique that produced excellent results.

"Mmmph," the cat said, finishing off bits of dumpling. "Might not be health food, but sure is good."

"Yeah," grinned the terrier. "If I ate like this every day, I’d ruin my cute girlish figure. But a little splurge now and then won’t hurt anything."

They ambled off for home, stuffed and happy.

Part V: Flip Your Wig

1.

Jack had washed down a handful of uppers with a tumbler of red wine (he liked it chilled and cheap, the better for volume drinking) and was in an especially foul mood. This was not helped when he saw the scratched-up sofa and curtains. Claire had neglected to get a scratching post for Mittens as she had promised, and the cat had begun sharpening her claws on the furniture and elsewhere.

"Where's that rotten, no-good cat at, anyway?" he slurred angrily. "Gonna have to teach that Mr. Mittens a thing or two, yes sir… "

The tuxedo kitty was sprawled in front of the television set. She had just finished watching a movie, Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train" (a great psychological thriller about an offer to trade murders between strangers gone psychotically wrong), and was part way through a second feature, "The Night of the Hunter" (a bizarre but worthwhile film about a serial murdering preacher’s obsession with getting a cache of money from two young children at any cost), when she was unceremoniously hoisted into the air. Mittens yowled and squirmed, trying to escape as Jack hauled her off to the kitchen.

When the cat swiped a nasty scratch into Jack’s cheek, the furious man pushed her roughly onto a cutting board on the counter and grabbed a large butcher knife from the wooden block. "You think that's funny, green eyes?" he sneered. "Well you're not going to rip up me or the furniture ever again, that's for darned sure… "

Mittens howled as loudly as she could, closing her eyes tightly in anticipation of the worst. But to her surprise, nothing further happened. She heard a loud clonk, followed by a heavy crash on the floor. The cat peeked furtively over her shoulder and saw Emily standing over her groaning husband, holding an aluminum pot in her hand. Jack lay woozy on the floor, grabbing his head and writhing in pain. The butcher knife he had been wielding was now stuck in his right leg, draining a stream of blood that trickled onto the linoleum.

"Dang it, Emily! What the heck did you hit me on the head for?" he groaned. "I was gonna finish off that stinkin’ cat, but good."

Emily put up with a lot from her ne'er-do-well spouse, but she drew the line at fileting cats on the kitchen counter. "You miserable psycho! If you think I'm gonna stand by and watch you hack that kitty to pieces, you're sadly mistaken. Grow up, you rotten loser, or you’re gonna find me smacking you upside the head with the cast iron skillet. Flushing a parakeet is one thing. This is something else, and your behavior makes no sense at all. I'm not playin’ games here."

"This isn't over, cat!" moaned Jack under his breath.

2.

Two weeks later, Mittens woke up in a stupor, having remembered very little about the last few days. Jack and Emily had stuffed her in the cat carrier and bounced her around on the subway for about 45 minutes, but the rest was a blur. She was lying on a cat bed cushion inside an enclosure with metal bars, and had no idea where she might be. One thing she could tell, though -- something was different as well as very wrong. Her paws hurt and felt strange.

"Oh -- my -- dog!" she gasped when she finally looked at her feet. "My claws! What happened to my claws? What am I gonna do?" she mewled weakly.

Declawing a cat is something most veterinarians refuse to do. It's a fundamentally cruel practice that leaves its victims defenseless and unable to hunt for food. Bad as this was, it was actually better than what Jack had in mind, which was putting Mittens down; the procedure had been Emily’s idea, and to her seemed like an acceptable, if distasteful compromise. She tasked Jack with finding someone who would perform the claw amputation -- and as he discovered, you can always locate an under-the-table exception to doing the right thing if you look hard enough. One of his construction job colleagues had an uncle who would perform any kind of animal surgery for the right price.

"You're never gonna scratch up me or the furniture again, you rotten vermin," growled Jack maliciously when he brought Mittens home again. "And you watch yourself. One of these days, Emily isn't gonna be looking, and I'll carve you up like a Halloween pumpkin. So, if you know what's good for you… "

The cat also discovered that food was not put out as often as before, and the intervals between litter box cleanings grew notably longer. Between Claire’s forgetfulness and Jack’s aggressive neglect, Mittens became thinner and scruffier looking. She made do as best she could, eating the cockroaches and spiders and centipedes she had originally considered only worth playing with, as well as mice caught in snap traps and table refuse from garbage cans. Petey took pity on Mittens and often shared his food with her nowadays. The pit bull’s circle of friends frequently pitched in as well, bringing her whatever scraps they managed to scrounge up. They did their best to console their sad friend, helping her come to terms with the traumatic loss of her claws as well as they could.

It wasn't easy, but Mittens got by.

Part VI: Everything Falls Apart

The cat had somehow managed to remain a member of Jack’s family for two and a half years now. Like the now-cliched poster, Mittens had hung in there by cobbling together nourishment from various sources, discovering lots of impenetrable indoor hiding places, and spending plenty of time with Petey and his pals.

But things just seemed to get worse with Jack. He had begun using meth and crack regularly, becoming paranoid and more aggressive. He often spent a day or two in jail for various indignities inflicted on his neighbors without violating the letter of the more frequent restraining orders he attracted. It was only a matter of time before things would finally come to a head.

Jack staggered into the living room one day in excruciating pain, slamming the front door behind him. Three fingers and part of his right hand were severely mangled, and his shredded pant leg revealed a significantly damaged left leg and foot. A blood trail spilled on the floor and traced his path everywhere. Mittens silently crept from her favorite closet hiding place and peered furtively around the corner.

Emily winced when she saw him. "All right -- what idiocy have you been up to now?" she said.

The man gasped in agony. "I think I did a stupid thing. Remember, I said I was sure Darnell had been siphoning gas out of our car? Well, I stormed into his apartment and confronted him about it. Slugged him punch drunk right from the gut, until that darned dog of his decided to jump me. I finally fought off that crappy pooch, but he tore me up good. Really found his target, too."

His wife shook her head as she grabbed a first aid kit. "I’m sure the police will be here soon enough. You’ll go to jail for a good long stretch between violating a restraining order and committing assault and battery. This time, they'll throw the book at you, you dumbbell." She tried to bind up his wounds as best she could. "We need to get you to a hospital before you bleed to death or something."

"No -- won't matter anyway -- they'll just arrest me at the clinic. We can't stay here. Besides, we're just a couple days away from getting evicted. I say we grab a few things, pile in the car, and head across state lines. They'll have to extradite me, which might delay things some. Let's drive to Philadelphia, and I'll go to a hospital there."

"You're nuts -- I don't think you're gonna make it," Emily said gravely, "But maybe you're right -- we don't really have any choice. I'll throw together a couple suitcases and we’ll go."

The cat was horribly upset, but not for Jack. "Oh no -- poor Petey! Poor Darnell! I hope they’re all right." She started for the door when she suddenly felt a hand on the back of her neck. Claire had grabbed Mittens by the scruff, and began stuffing her into the cat carrier.

"I'm not gonna leave you behind," muttered the girl. "It wouldn't be right to abandon you here."

The three humans, with cat in tow, piled into their dented old auto and sped away, just ahead of a gang of squad cars that pulled up to the housing project. Despite his wounds, Jack insisted on driving. He had also been sneaking sips of sour mash whiskey from pint bottles hidden under the seat of the car, hoping this would dull his pain.

"I'm hungry," whined Claire as they drove into Manhattan. "Can we stop at McGinnis’s for a Double Gloppy Burger and fries?"

Jack swore under his breath and pulled over. "Okay, okay -- but make it quick. I wanna get to Philly in an hour and a half."

Emily left the car along with her daughter. "I've had all I can take from him," she snarled under her breath. "When we get settled in Philly, I'm gonna bash his brains in with that cast iron skillet and take Claire with me. He's never gonna change, and the only solution is to use his head for target practice. And good riddance, too."

Jack sat in the car with the motor running, sipping booze and watching his improvised bandages slowly darken with blood. "Blah, blah, blah. I've had all I can stand from those two obnoxious creeps, darn it. After we get established in Philly, I’ll take a knife to the two of them while they sleep. And then I'll duck out of town before anyone finds out. I'm better off without them. Start over with some hot broad. Plenty of those around."

It was then that he heard rustling in the backseat. "What the… did Claire really bring that stupid cat? No way I want that mangy furball around anymore. Had enough of you, too, you crummy little weasel." With that, he limped out of the car, grabbed the cat carrier, and staggered to the adjacent alley. He opened the enclosure, roughly dragged Mittens out with his good hand, and dumped her in an open trash can, putting the lid on so she wouldn't easily escape. "Shoulda done this months ago," he scowled. "Go to heck, you crappy fleabag."

He put the empty cat carrier back on the car seat, hoping Claire wouldn't notice Mittens was gone. Not surprisingly, she didn't.

Part VII: Zen Arcade

1.

Mittens had spent her entire life uneasily balancing between snark and fear. Now, what was perhaps her worst fear of all had come to pass. She hadn't been especially happy in Jack and Emily’s masochism world, but at least it was a roof over her head, shelter from rain, snow, cold, and heat. She did get fed, if irregularly, plus she had a safety net in Petey and his friends. In addition, she was mostly protected from the worst excesses of urban street fauna, whether they were large like rats and mean dogs or small like fleas and worms. Now, she was beyond the threshold for keeps and had nothing. Absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, she had no claws anymore. And she was a long way from Brooklyn now, so going back to find Petey was not a viable option. Essentially, Jack had left her to perish in a Manhattan alley.

She had no way to turn on the news or read the tabloids, but had she done so, she would have realized that Jack unwittingly had given the cat her life back. The "New York Tattler," a rather disreputable local rag, told the story most luridly. Beneath the screaming headline "Inferno!" and the grisly photo of a car engulfed in flames was the story of a horrific auto accident somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike. An old car with three occupants had smashed full-on at 80 miles an hour into the back of a stopped oil tanker truck. The latter had exploded into a monstrous fireball, killing the truck's driver, the three occupants of the old car, and six other people in immediately surrounding vehicles. It was determined, given the presence of several empty pint sour mash whiskey bottles in the old car, that driving under the influence had been the likely cause.

Mittens was totally unaware of this, however -- and as far as she was concerned, her life might as well be over. The poor cat became morosely depressed, weeping bitter tears and contemplating suicide. Going to the top floor of a skyscraper and jumping from the ledge? Throwing herself into the East River from a bridge? Running into the street and allowing herself to be run over by a bus? She seriously considered all of these and more, but something always stopped her -- she just couldn't bring herself to do it, feeling in her gut that she’d be sorry somehow if she succeeded. Broken home, broken heart.

The cat tightened her resolve after a couple weeks of devastating misery, ultimately deciding that she wouldn't give the Jacks of this world the satisfaction of destroying her. Mittens became hard, bitter, cynical, and mistrustful -- something that was only reinforced the day a stray dog she made the mistake of trying to befriend attacked her, leaving her with scratches and a ragged chomp out of her left ear.

Mittens slept with one eye open at all times nowadays. The cat indulged in occasional dalliances with alley toms when she had a proverbial itch to scratch, but formed close ties with no one. She squabbled over french fries and popcorn and bagel bits with other hungry street critters. She snuck food from outdoor market stands and inattentive lunching office workers in the park. She found herself becoming thinner, though, as time dragged on -- her lack of claws precluded doing any meaningful hunting, and the outdoor market owners and lunching businessmen became wise to her pilfering ways, chasing her away on sight. She tried to do Petey’s begging "dog face" a couple times, only to get rocks thrown at her for her trouble.

2.

A few months after being abandoned, Mittens discovered a novel way to feed herself reliably. During a particularly heated scrap with two pigeons over a discarded Double Gloppy Burger, she roughly pinned them both to the ground while yowling and baring her teeth.

"Listen up, you two, and listen good!" the cat shouted threateningly. "I’m starving, and I’ll be darned if I’m gonna let this opportunity go by. How’d you like me to make things really interesting and unleash my claws on you? Don’t know what your real names are, but I’m about to rename you Breakfast and Brunch over here."

"No, no, no, no!" shrieked the bird on the left, whose name was Vinny. "Please -- please spare me! I’ve got a wife and three ex-wives counting on me!"

"Yeah -- yeah!" quavered the pigeon on the right, named Louie. "We’re sorry! We’ll never do that again. Please, please, please -- let us go!"

Mittens thought a minute. The two birds appeared to be genuinely afraid for their lives. She had bluffed them and pulled it off. Maybe this could pay off somehow? There was only one way to find out.

"All right, listen up, you two rats with wings! I’m gonna cut you the deal of a lifetime, ‘cause I think you just might prove useful to me down the road. Capisce?" growled the cat menacingly. The two birds squawked their assent. "Good," Mittens continued. "There’s plenty of Gloppy Burger here for all of us. We’re gonna share it. And in return for my generous largesse, we’re gonna maintain a beautiful friendship with each other from here on out. I’ll provide protection for you guys courtesy of my razor fangs and steel-sharp claws -- and in return you’ll bring me half of all the food you scrounge up. You -- odd-numbered days. And you -- even-numbered days. Ten A.M. sharp. And I don’t take kindly to lateness, either."

"And if we refuse?" said Louie.

"Well, y’know, I’m around all the time. And I’m always hungry. Being a cat, I can sneak up and jump you when you least expect it. And your name will change to Mr. Hors D’Oeuvre in a heartbeat. Oh, and by the way, if you can recruit any other pigeons to my little protection scheme, it’ll spread the burden around a bit less heavily on you. You got friends, right?"

"Yeah -- yeah, I do," replied Vinny. "Joey and Bobby will be over to see you later today. They scrounge things up pretty good, too."

"I’m sure I can rope my buddies Saul and Ted into our little arrangement," offered Louie. "I’ll go find them."

"Good boys!" said Mittens. "You guys are all right in my book. Now let’s celebrate our new-found friendship over that Gloppy Burger sittin’ under us. Shall we?"

Against all odds, her Godfather style scam worked surprisingly well. Sometimes, it’s the biggest lie that best convinces. Mittens wasn’t transformed into a fat cat, but she never again wanted for food, either. The cat wasn’t proud that she had had to stoop to extortion to eat, but it seemed there was no other choice. She spent the next year at her newest industry, fruitfully playing Capo di Tutti Capi to her pigeon brood. Life was actually halfway pleasant for her, if still nowhere near ideal.

Over time, Mittens even began to forget how bad things had been with Jack and his family. In fact, she mentally romanticized her past a bit as often happens with most critters in such circumstances. Things like gleefully hunting bugs, snoozing in favorite hideaway spots, hearing good music, watching TV, visiting the pit bull and his pals, and above all, tussling with a ball of yarn in front of a fire remained with her while the worst horrors disappeared deep into her subconscious. She had gone so far, in fact, as to believe her awful family had actually loved her. It was a relatively healthy thing to do in her case -- a survival mechanism, really, for a being who had no access to things like psychotherapy. Dwelling on the worst is a path to misery, even madness, and the cat refused to let herself go there.

This thinking had its pitfalls, however. If her family had indeed loved her, why was she dumped in the trash like a dirty diaper? Don’t families cut each other some slack for bad conduct -- especially a family that specializes in it? What unforgivably horrific thing could she have done to deserve abandonment? Whatever it might have been was a mystery; after all, typical feline behavior shouldn’t result in what came perilously close to being a death sentence for a declawed cat. This was harder for Mittens to rationalize away, and haunted her psyche for some time afterwards.

Mittens also eventually learned from an acquaintance of a friend of an acquaintance of a friend that returning to Brooklyn wouldn’t have been wise, even if she could have. Darnell and Petey spent two months recovering from their ugly encounter with Jack and decided this was the last straw. They moved halfway across the country to the Twin Cities area of Minnesota, where they found a far better life. Darnell had landed a plum bartending job at a popular Hennepin Avenue gay bar and was making great money, while Petey now had more friends than he could juggle. "I’ll never forget you," she thought wistfully.

She continued on as best she could, one step at a time, for a few months more until the day an angry white dog suddenly hurtled his way into her life, changing everything -- and as it turned out, for far better than Mittens could have dared hope.


End file.
